


Fool Me Twice

by Viceter



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Redemption
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-18
Updated: 2016-08-18
Packaged: 2018-08-09 15:56:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7808068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Viceter/pseuds/Viceter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fool me once, shame on you.</p><p>Fool me twice, shame on me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fool Me Twice

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to RevyDutch for beta'ing and Asynca for encouraging me to post and providing feedback. Fill for this prompt: http://viceterships.tumblr.com/post/148891587279/can-you-do-a-small-thing-that-goes-sorta-like
> 
> "Love is watching someone die..." - What Sarah Said, Death Cab for Cutie
> 
> Thank you all for reading <3

**_Synopsis: Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me._ **

**_Pairing: Rocket Angel/Pharmercy (Fareeha “Pharah Amari/Angela “Mercy” Ziegler), Widowtracer (Amélie “Widowmaker” Lacroix/Lena “Tracer” Oxton)_ **

_Lijiang Tower_

Amélie Lacroix came home to fireworks and a party. Her skin, the blue banished by Mercy’s medical magic and Lena’s tireless affection, tingled with the champagne Fareeha Amari passed her, a small smile lighting her tattooed face.

“It is good to have you,” she said, her smile turning sly. “I no longer have to fear your your rifle, across the battlefield.”

Amélie had snorted, once. Vague memories of another target, with a tattoo like Fareeha’s swirled through her mind, then slipped away like a puff of breath in cold air.

“Not across the battlefield, non.”

* * *

_Watchpoint: Gibralter_

Although it was Lena she spent most time watching, either from behind the screen of a holopad, or outright, she catalogued the rituals and routines of the other Overwatch agents — Genji’s biweekly attempts to coax his brother into self-absolution; Jack Morrison’s frequent disappearances to pursue his own quest; Jesse McCree’s late-night wandering of the halls of the Watchpoints, and his frequent stops at Gabriel Reyes’s empty door, his prosthetic hand lingering on the faded nameplate.

When they could, Fareeha Amari and Hana Song would meet in odd places — sometimes the gym, but more often, the rooftop, or fields outside the Watchpoints, or even hangars, often to spar, Fareeha correcting Hana’s form and crowing with glee whenever the girl caught her off-guard with a good strike or throw.

She always ended their sessions with a ruffle of the girl’s hair, or a one-armed hug.

If they did not train, then they would sit, sharing a sandwich or two prepared by Doctor Ziegler, and talk, of missions, of mechs, of Mercy; whatever happened to meander through their minds. When Pharah would leave, D.Va would watch her go, grinning, chest puffed, looking like another young brunette from Amélie’s memories, after Gerard (it had to be Gerard, didn’t it?) slapped her on the back, praising her efforts.

“Cute, innit?” Lena said once, when Amélie stopped during a stroll together to watch Fareeha and Hana roll in the grass, laughing and taunting. “Reminds me a little o’ mama bear and baby bear, or something. You know?”

Amélie tore her eyes away, heart sinking.

“Indeed, cherié.”

* * *

_Numbani_

Once, during a celebration after a successful mission, Amélie ducked out of the crowded living room to the kitchen, where she found Fareeha and Satya Vaswani laughing quietly with one another. Symmetra was smiling; unusual for the architech. Pharah chuckled, beckoning her over.

“Amélie,” she said in that accent of hers, “Satya argues that Lena might look better with a more symmetrical haircut. I disagree, what do you think?”

“Yes,” Satya said, “a part in the middle and a trim to even everything out would be superior.”

Amélie was struck by the image of Lena, her hair flattened and parted in the center of her head, twirling a mustache like some kind of 1950’s villain.

“Oh mon dieu. Non, non, that will not do at all.”

Fareeha threw her head back and laughed, Satya looking vaguely affronted.

“She will do as she is.”

* * *

_Route 66_

“Well done, Widowmaker,” Pharah’s voice buzzed from her comm unit as the payload reached home. “Without your covering fire, we would not have completed this mission without casualty.”

Later, as Amélie approached the open door of the medbay to request treatment for a few minor injuries, she heard the doctor’s voice, warm and full of affection.

“You give me heart attacks out there, Fareeha.”

Pharah’s low chuckle rumbled.

“Oh, Angela. Certainly no more than you make my heart beat faster whenever you are around.”

Amélie strode through the door, catching a glimpse of the doctor’s red face before she scampered into a corner, busying herself with her records while her blush died down.

“Am I interrupting?” Amélie said.

Fareeha glanced once more at the doctor, who studiously ignored them both. She smirked and ran a hand through her hair.

“Not at all. I was on my way out.” The Raptora pilot pulled a shirt on, masking her impressive musculature from view, something even the Widowmaker could agree was a loss, then called from the doorway, “Thank you, Angela. I’ll see you later.”

As Doctor Ziegler addressed her injuries, Amélie felt compelled to say something.

“She is very handsome, non?”

Mercy dropped her datapad, then cursed loudly in German.

“Pardon?” She said, her voice pitched higher than usual. “I didn’t catch that.”

Amélie smirked.

“Care, doctor. Someone may rob you of Fareeha Amari before you have the opportunity to enjoy her.”

* * *

_Dorado_

Memories in the dead of night, like a sudden infusion of ice through her body.

A disembodied voice.

“The doc doesn’t die. Can’t die, anymore than I can. But she can break. Break the doctor and you break Overwatch.”

Breathing, as though through a gas mask made of frost. Amélie raised her hand, dreamed blue creeping through her fingertips. Lena turned over, nuzzling into her bare side. Her heart sped. Warm.

She was warm.

* * *

_Temple of Anubis_

“Doctor Zhou,” Fareeha Amari bent at the waist, hovering over the shoulder of the climatologist, who was red-faced and sweating in the Egyptian heat. “Here, this might help.” She handed Mei an ice cream cone, scoop of pink already beginning to melt down the sides. “Zaryanova mentioned it’s your favorite flavor.”

Mei’s face brightened; she patted the stone of the ledge next to her.

“You’re too sweet, Fareeha. I miss her dearly,” she confessed.

Fareeha tossed her long legs over the perch, sitting next to the Chinese woman. Amélie crunched into the remnants of her own cone, savoring the interplay of Black Cherry and cream, one hand resting idly on the handle of her rifle. She was on guard duty; Fareeha and Mei were not. Regardless, the former soldier wore a holster on her thigh, and Mei kept her Endothermic Blaster within arm’s reach.

“I’m sure she misses you just as much.”

Mei sighed, leaning her head against Fareeha’s arm.

“You and Angela are lucky. You don’t get separated much.”

Fareeha bit off a chunk of vanilla.

“It is bittersweet.”

Mei’s eyebrows disappeared into her bangs.

“You still haven’t told her?” she asked.

Fareeha shook her head, studying her feet, boots swinging.

“Even if she reciprocated my feelings, I do not think she would have the time to pursue a relationship. Her work is far too important to distract her with… with…” Fareeha’s stared at the palm of her free hand, brows drawn together.

Mei rubbed the tall soldier’s back.

“Fareeha. The people we love are not distractions to the work that we do. They are comrades, allies. A soul does not thrive on work alone, no matter how meaningful.” She patted Fareeha’s cheek. “And Angela, though she hides it well, is very, very lonely. I think you may be just what the doctor ordered!”

Fareeha chuckled, ponytail swishing as she shook her head at the poor joke.

“Besides,” Mei said, her grin turning mischievous, “there isn’t a gay woman alive who wouldn’t want to have you in their bed. If I weren’t with Aleks….” She eyed Fareeha’s biceps, wiggling her eyebrows. Amélie nearly choked on a piece of sugar waffle cone. Who would’ve thought that the small Asian woman could be so forward?

Not Fareeha Amari, apparently, if the bright red of her ears and the sudden stiffness in her posture was any indication.

“Um. Uh, t-thank you, Mei.”

“It’s the truth! You really should consider telling her. Life, especially for people who do what we do, is too short.”

Amélie felt a sudden pang in her chest and turned away, walking to the other side of her sniper’s perch and watching the sand stir in the distance.

* * *

_Hanamura_

“She is something, isn’t she?” Angela Ziegler said, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Amélie. They observed as Aleksandra and Fareeha chugged a sake bomb each, Fareeha finishing seconds faster than her competition. Good-naturedly, Aleks thumped Fareeha on the back, congratulating her. Then, she shoved her hands beneath Fareeha’s armpits and lifted her onto her shoulders. Lena took a running jump to slap her palms against a bewildered Fareeha’s while Reinhardt and Torbjörn thumped their steins on the table, whooping and laughing.

“Zaryanova!” Fareeha said, flailing as Aleks paraded her around the common room. “I’ll fall!”

The squeaky pitch in her voice made Angela cover her snickers with her hand, fond blue eyes trained only on the Egyptian with one hand tangled in a head of pink hair.

“Who?” Amélie asked, though she knew full well the answer to her own question.

Hana and Lucio leaned back in their chairs, pointing and cackling at the sheer panic on Fareeha’s face. 

“Fareeha. She strikes you as so stoic and aloof initially, doesn’t she? But she’s really quite warm. She makes people feel…” her hand floated through the air, fishing for the word, “protected. Accepted.”

In the corner, nursing Japanese whiskys, Jesse, Jack, and Hanzo watched, the suggestion of a smile on Hanzo’s face. Jesse hopped onto a stool, hooting.

“Pour up another one, boys! A drink for the champ!”

Despite Fareeha’s protests, Jesse dropped another shot of sake into a full glass of Sapporo, forcing it into her hands.

“Oh, Fareeha, I will join you!” Reinhardt said, leaping to his feet and clanking his refilled stein against Fareeha’s drink. She did her best to keep anything from sloshing on Aleks.

Fareeha looked over at Angela and Amélie, mouthing ‘help me,’ her brown eyes wide, lower lip jutting.

“Go, Fareeha, go!” Angela said instead, pumping her fist into the air and cheering.

Fareeha’s eyes narrowed.

‘Traitor,’ she mouthed, earning a fit of laughter from Angela.

They were pathetic, Amélie decided, rolling her eyes. Hopelessly in love and too duty-bound to do anything about it.

Fareeha started to drink hurriedly when Aleksandra threatened to toss her across the room if she didn’t.

Several more members of the new Overwatch entered. Almost immediately, Satya shook her head and stalked past the commotion to the kitchen, accompanied by Winston.

“Humans have interesting pasttimes,” Amélie heard Zenyatta remark to Genji.

“There is great joy to be found in lowering your inhibitions among those you care for, sensei. 

“Oh? Then perhaps there is enlightenment to be found in observing.”

Mei joined Angela and Amélie, having retrieved a vodka soda from the bar.

“How much have they had to drink already?” Mei asked.

“Enough,” Amélie said.

“Well, they deserve it,” Mei said.

“Fareeha hasn’t had much, yet. Though if Aleks has her way…” Angela trailed off, shaking her head. 

Fareeha found her way off Aleksandra’s shoulders, disappearing only to reappear in front of Amélie, Angela, and Mei, bearing an open bottle of Beaujolais and a can of Sapporo.

“Doctor. I noticed you were running dry,” she said with a flourish.

Angela giggled, offering her empty glass and allowing Fareeha to top her off.

“Why thank you, Captain Amari.”

 The two of them stared into each other’s eyes, lost. Amélie sniffed

“I see your chivalry is only reserved for Doctor Ziegler. It is fine. I will manage on my own.”

Angela’s eyes widened, her mouth falling open as she regarded Amélie.

Fareeha just laughed, patting Amélie’s cheek, her eyes slightly glazed from the alcohol, and her charm dialed to the maximum.

“No need to be jealous, mignonette, there is wine enough for you both,” Fareeha said.

Angela looked from Fareeha to Amélie, then back, Mei biting her lip and stifling sniggers behind her.

“I didn’t realize you had grown so close,” the doctor said, lips pursed.

“Moi? Et cet oiseau stupide? Non, we are not close. I am only here for the wine.”

As the night came to its end, Amélie noticed Fareeha and Angela slip away together. She followed them outside, and ducked behind a column so as not to be seen. Angela swayed, finishing her glass of wine before setting it aside. She leaned against Fareeha’s side, sighing happily as the woman’s arm wound around her shoulders.

“I wish life could be like this always,” Angela said, pressing into Fareeha. “Peaceful. Full of joy.”

“And our dear friends getting more drunk than they should?”

“Every once in a while, yes.” Angela turned her body to wrap her arms around Fareeha’s waist. “This is nice too.”

Fareeha swallowed, the fingertips of her free hand grazing blonde hair.

“I think you should go to bed,” she murmured.

“Oh? Are you going to carry me?” Angela maneuvered her arms around Fareeha’s neck, grin turning sly. “I think you should carry me.” Without further preamble, she pounced, attempting to fasten herself to Fareeha’s waist with her thighs. Only Fareeha’s reflexes saved them both from toppling over. She fastened both of her arms beneath Angela’s rear, hoisting her with ease.

“Oof. You need to warn me when you do that.”

Angela hummed, her nose buried in Fareeha’s shoulder, her ankles locked at the base of Fareeha’s spine.

“I warned you.” Her breath tickled Fareeha’s ear. “Bedtime, ja?”

“Ja, ja,” Fareeha muttered, setting off for the doctor’s quarters.

“Danke, Fareeha,” Angela said, pressing her lips to Fareeha’s cheek. “I am glad you found your way back to me.”

“As am I, ya amar. As am I.”

Amélie did not follow. She had seen enough.

* * *

_Beaujolais Region, France_

“Amélie! We’re ready! Will it be just the three of us?” Angela Ziegler, her arm entwined with Fareeha’s, who was in tight leather pants, a loose white shirt, and a leather jacket, aviators perched on top of her tied-back hair. For her part, Amélie wore burgundy bottoms, skintight and tucked into flat-heeled riding boots, a tight black turtleneck, and black calfskin gloves, most of her skin obstructed from view. She was pale, her makeup thicker than usual. Even so, the dark, puffy circles beneath her eyes betrayed sleepless nights.

“Oui, just the three of us. Lena is stuck on guard duty.”

Amélie was silent on the ride to the vineyard. She answered the questions that Angela came up with, but the trio were content with the flurry of color passing by the windows, and the hour of quiet. Her eyes, light, almost gold again beneath the brilliant sky, flitted from the greenery outside to Angela in the passenger’s seat and Fareeha in the driver’s. Her eyes lingered on the Egyptian, on her large, scarred hands on the steering wheel, nails painted black by Hana. Fareeha met her eyes in the rearview mirror, raising an eyebrow. Amélie looked away, worrying at her lower lip.

Upon arriving at the vineyard, they emerged from the small Renault, Amélie leading them past the entrance with a nod to the head of staff.

“How did you…?” Fareeha glanced back at the vineyard staff, then to Amélie. Golden eyes narrowed, and Fareeha let the subject drop. Instead, she listened attentively as Amélie explained the process for establishing a vineyard, expounding on soil conditions, vine maintenance, grape types, and fermentation. Angela was rapt.

“Can you do this on a smaller scale?” She asked, leaning over a trellis to examine a cluster of grapes, hanging full and heavy.

“Oui.” Amélie managed a thin-lipped smile, feeling tendrils of cold slithering through her veins. “Do you have aspirations of becoming a vigneron, Doctor Ziegler?”

Angela glanced at Fareeha, whose back was turned to them both, mapping the horizon and the hills. There was such fondness in her blue eyes, such unspoken hope… Amélie felt her slowing heartbeat tick faster for a moment. Only a moment.

A brief image, of her and Lena cradling glasses of red, emerging onto a balcony overlooking a vineyard just like this one settled in her mind. And then, one of Angela, her fingers stained red, tending to vines, lifting her left hand to wipe her brow, a golden band around her ring finger. She would raise her head to greet Fareeha, bearing two cold glasses of lemonade, the sunshine glinting on her matching ring — 

Amélie closed her eyes, shutting away the visions of an impossible future.

“One day, perhaps. If and when they let me retire.” Amélie opened her eyes, noticing for the first time the most minute of crow’s feet crinkling at the edges of the doctor’s eyes as she smiled.

 _…very, very lonely,_ Amélie recalled Mei’s words. She forced her right hand into her pocket, fist clenching out of view. She took a deep breath, feeling the slowing pump of her heart, and walked on.

“What do you think, Fareeha? Me, a vigneron — when Amélie says it, it is so much prettier, is it not?”

The Egyptian sang with sincerity.

“Truly? I am far more partial to your voice, Angela.”

Amélie bit her lip, then turned, hands on hips, catching a glimpse of pink on Angela’s cheeks before Angela looked away abruptly.

“Are you quite done, tourtereaux? We have much to see yet.”

They picked their way to a barbed wire fence separating one vineyard from another, Amélie growing numb with ever step. As they navigated a particularly narrow corridor of vines, Angela’s ponytail snagged on on a trellis. She squeaked, yanked backwards.

Amélie felt ice drop into her stomach, all feeling draining away, apathy bleaching everything gray.

Immediately, Fareeha pivoted, her arms on either side of Angela’s head, fingers working at blonde hair with such gentleness and care — Amélie was reminded of her own hands, undoing the straps of Lena’s chronal accelerator, hands turning bluer with every day that passed. She’d convinced herself then that it was just the wash of light from the accelerator, painting her skin.

She felt a tug, a sudden pull at the base of her neck, and then it was as though she was floating above her own body.

_“Break the doctor and you break Overwatch.”_

Memories cycled through her mind. Mercy, outwardly calm, bent over Pharah’s armor, fingers prying at the plates, the only indication of her inner turmoil the flashes of panic in blue eyes. Angela-- Doctor Ziegler-- Mercy, her ponytail loose, head pillowed on her arms, inches away from Fareeha, no, Pharah’s hip, snoring louder than her patient. 

Lena… the ache of that… Lena… she braced herself against it. 

The doctor, hugging her knees, eyes red-rimmed and cheeks tear-stained, sitting on a rooftop. She had spoken to no one. Until… until… Amari strode up, stretching her long legs out beside her, mouth moving, saying something Amélie could not hear. And then, with all the suddenness of the sun banishing clouds, Angela letting out a strangled cry and throwing herself into Fareeha’s lap, burying her face in her chest, sobbing, heaving, great gasping breaths and all the sorrow of someone made a hero at 17.

Fareeha Amari held her until she couldn’t cry anymore, trembling and small, clutching at Fareeha’s neck like a lifeline. 

Amari’s voice, carried on the wind.

_“I will always be with you.”_

“I’m sorry,” Amélie heard herself whisper, laying her hand on Fareeha Amari’s shoulder. She drove the knife in her right hand home, through the heart, then twice more, grazing against rib bones as her hand trembled.

Angela watched, uncomprehending, as Fareeha’s fingers spasmed through her hair, her face contorting, body jolting once, twice, a third time, red creeping across the fabric of her white shirt. And then, over Fareeha’s shoulder, Amélie’s face, streaked, indigo where the tears had washed away her make-up.

Fareeha let out a tiny, pained noise, then collapsed against Angela.

“Fareeha!” Angela screamed. They sunk to the ground. Angela, hands quaking, scrambled for her phone.

Widowmaker took off, loping away. She looked back once at the stricken doctor. The devastation on her face said everything. Once more, Widowmaker felt alive and Amélie flickered away, her time up.

“Jack! Jack, you have to hurry, Jack, send Tracer, send Symmetra. Please, please.” Angela’s mouth quivered. “I need,” a hitch, “I need my staff. I need everything. Fareeha’s been stabbed, Jack, please. She’s losing too much blood!”

She didn’t wait for his affirmative, pressing her hands to the wounds.

 “No, no, no, Fareeha, nein, you cannot leave me! Fareeha! Fareeha! Listen to my voice. Stay with me, Liebe, stay with me.”

Fareeha raised her hand, tracing Angela’s jaw, her fingers losing their strength.

“Shh, shh, ya hayati. This is it for me. They’ll never make it in time. I need to… I need to tell you something.” Her voice wavered. “I think you know already, but,” blood bubbled from her lips; her breath grew weaker, labored, “I want to tell you. I love you, Angela. I didn’t think I could love anyone like this, but I love you. I thought… the height of my life would be serving. I was wrong. The happiest moments of my life have been being by your side. My only regret… my only regret,” her eyelids fluttered, blood soaking through her jacket, staining the earth beneath them crimson, “was not telling you sooner. P-please.” 

She reached for the dog tags around her neck, already too weak to tug them off. She offered them to Angela, still hanging from her neck. “Don’t-- don’t forget me. T-tell Hana… mother… sorry….”

Fareeha’s eyes fell shut.

She tried, Angela tried to steel her voice with the certainty of a surgeon.

“Fareeha, don’t you dare, don’t you dare give up!”

Her voice cracked. Fareeha’s lips formed the ghost of a smile.

“Please! Please! You’re supposed to be with me. You can’t, you can’t leave me, not when— not when I love you so much.”

Angela had never asked God for anything. The rise and fall of Fareeha’s chest slowed, stuttered.

“Please, God, please, Fareeha. I can’t. I can’t do this without you, pl-please hold on. Please, Fareeha….” 

Her hands were slick and tainted red. Fareeha’s hand fell from her dog tags. 

“Heroes never die! He-heroes n-never die! Heroes never die….”

They found Angela Ziegler sobbing into Fareeha Amari’s still chest, lips moving in the shape of her name, in professions of love, in words of resurrection. Of Amélie, they found nothing, only the Widowmaker’s discarded knife.


End file.
